Hitting Rock Bottom
by Flagg1991
Summary: Spongebob's had enough of his dead end life and starts to crack. Meanwhile, Plankton seeks a way to use this to his advantage. Cover by Raganoxer
1. Dead End Life

_Hoooooooooonk!_

One yellow lid peels back from a red, glassy eye, then closes against the sting of sunlight spilling through the porthole window. _Ow, goddamn it._

 _Hooooooonk!_

Like every morning, Spongebob swings his legs out from under the blanket and sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Gary, his pet snail, slithered over and looked up at him. _Meow._

"Go away, Gary," Spongebob said, "I'm not even awake yet."

The alarm went off again, and, flashing, Spongebob knocked it off the nightstand, relishing the sound of it breaking on the floor. I hate that fucking thing. Six days a week it blows my fucking face off. _Here, son,_ Mom said when she gave it to me, _it's a housewarming present from me and your father._ Jeez, Ma, thanks, just what I always wanted, a metaphorical kick in the nads; next best thing to waking up to a blast of buckshot.

Getting to his feet, Spongebob crossed to the bathroom, snapped the light on, and did his best to avoid looking at his own reflection as he brushed his teeth. Not many people knew this because he smiled in everyone's face, but he hated Bikini Bottom. He hated his job at the Krusty Krab. He hated fucking _everything_. He was young and chipper once, bouncing around like a goddamn dumbass ( _I'm ready, I'm ready_ ), but he woke up and smelled the coffee _real_ quick - everything sucks. Five years ago, when he first started working for Mr. Krabs, he loved making Krabby Patties. He loved the taste, the smell, the way the grease popped and burned the shit out of him - somewhere along the way, though, he lost his passion, and ever since then, he'd been a miserable, unfulfilled bastard. This wasn't living...this was him going through the motions and hoping a boat ran him over crossing Main Street so he wouldn't have to face another long night of lying awake with his regrets.

He spat into the sink and dropped the toothbrush in after with a grumble. At his closet, he grabbed a suit and pulled it on: Brown pants, white shirt, tie, same thing he wore every day as he did the same thing in the same place for the same people _at the same time in the same way for the same low stinking fucking pay._

I know I sound like a bellyaching bitch, but you know what? I _am_ a bellyaching bitch. Fuck you.

He grabbed his hat from the dresser and started to leave, but stopped when Gary meowed. "I don't _care_ about my nametag," he said with strained patience.

 _Meow._

"I don't have time for this," Spongebob said. He went down the stairs and turned left into the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, crumbs littered the sticky floor, and last night's dinner sat cold and rotting on the stove. Roaches scurried out of his way and a rat watched from under the table, a fallen cracker in its hands. Spongebob ignored it all and opened the fridge; the smell of spoiled food wafted into his nostrils and he grimaced. I gotta clean this thing out.

He grabbed the sea horse milk and closed the door.

Maybe tomorrow.

Sitting at the table, he poured Kelpo into a bowl and sifted through it, sneering when he came back empty handed. What, no prize? Pfft. He topped it off with milk and ate with the unhurriedly leisure of a man who didn't give a fuck if he was late or not. _Spongebob, you're two seconds behind, me boy, I'll dock yer pay for this._ Yeah, dock it, you red, cocksucking Jew, it's not like I can pay my bills anyway. I still gotta beg money from my parents. Pretty fucking sad, huh? I've been working for this guy for years and he _still_ fucks me over on pay. I'd almost rather work for Plankton - if Plankton wasn't a complete failure who presided over a barren wasteland of a restaurant. All this time he's devoted to stealing the secret formula he coulda put into building himself up. If he tried to perfect his own recipe even a fraction as hard as he tried stealing Mr. Krabs, he'd be a millionaire. Instead he sat behind a desk in an empty slophouse like the captain of a voyage to nowhere and twiddled his thumbs while his wife cheated on him with an ATM. _Don't wait up, Sheldon, Matt's making a deposit tonight...a very_ big _deposit._

She was getting fucked by someone with a bigger dick is what he was saying.

Finished, he got up, took his bowl to the sink, and dropped it in. He went to the pantry, dragged out a big ass bag of snail food, and scooped some out with his hands; he dropped it into Gary's dish. "Gary, chow," he called. He dusted his hands on his pants and went into the living room. What time was it? Could he sit in his armchair and wallow for a while? He glanced at the clock, saw that he couldn't, and sighed. Whatever. I'll just go sit in one of the bathroom stalls at work.

Putting his hat on, he went out the door and locked it behind him. He turned and scanned the street, then started to cut across Squidward's yard but stopped when ole Dick Nose himself stuck his head out the second story window. "Spongebob!"

Aw, Christ, _this_ guy. You think _I'm_ bad, wait until you meet him. For one thing, he's the biggest fucking malcontent in the world, I swear. He could get his dick sucked by the most beautiful woman alive and he'll _still_ find a reason to bitch. For another, he's a gigantic narcissist who paints nothing but self-portraits, and then jacks off to them while listening to Kelpy G records on his hipster bought-at-the-mall turntable. He thinks he's better than everyone else because he watches public television. Guess what, asshole, my TV gets channel 3 too.

He's the kind of guy who buys the "artisan" frozen pizza because the crust looks like shit so _it must be handmade, I'll take three._ He listens to NPR and thinks he's smart for listening to smart people talk; he eats stank ass cheese cuz _hur hur it's fancy_ ; he listens to Mumford and Sons while doing yoga like a faggot; he reads classic novels and feels accomplished even though he didn't understand a single fucking point the author was trying to make; he parades around on his days off like he's the toast of the town when in actuality, he's just shit on toast. I fucking hate him. I swear to God, he's the only person in this entire fucking ocean that I legit can't stand. I tried to like him, I really did. I was always upbeat and perky around him, hoping some of it rubbed off, you know? It never did. Now, I act extra stupid with him just to piss him off.

Oh, and let's not forget what a goddamn slacker he is at work. I'm constantly cleaning up after this asshole and doing his work for him while he sits behind the register acting high and mighty. He thinks everyone should bow down to him but, newsflash, you gotta give people a reason to worship you. A few cheap prints of your own ugly face and a dance routine at the talent show that ended with you falling off the stage into the orchestra pit aren't enough. Do something with your life, you lazy, no talent bastard.

Presently, he looked up at Squidward through narrowed eyes. Don't fuck with me, I am _not_ in the mood today. "Spongebob," he repeated in that nasally Jew-voice. "What have I told you about walking on my grass?"

Spongebob looked at the ground.

Sand.

It was fucking sand.

"You don't _have_ grass, Squidward," Spongebob said in a patient wow-you're-really-stupid-let-me-explain tone he usually only reserved for Patrick.

"I am _cultivating_ it," Squidward said and turned his nose up.

Oh. Sneering, Spongebob drew back his foot and kicked the ground, sending up a cloud of sand. "There, cultivate _that!_ "

Squidward's jaw dropped...then his face darkened. "Spongebob!"

Spongebob waved him off and started walking again. Cultivating grass, pfft, like hell, he just wanted something to nitpick about. How miserable do you have to be? I mean, damn, I know I'm a ray of sunshine, but that dude's just over the top. You know, there's a huge difference between him and me. He _likes_ hating his life, _I_ don't. You think I jump out of bed every morning with a hard-on for feeling empty? _Bend over, blues, here cum da Sponge!_ Hell no. I don't like this. I like laughing and singing and being a goofball, but it's hard to do any of that shit when you're staring thirty in the face and the one thing that brought you knee-knocking, panty-wetting joy makes you tired just thinking about it. When I first started at the KK, I'd go to bed at night _excited_ for the next day. I'd wander around the kitchen with big, sparkly eyes and touch everything; I'd strut through the dining room all proud of my name tag _(look at me, ladies, I'm licensed to grill_ ), and for the longest time, I'd come in through the back door instead of the front because that EMPLOYEES ONLY sign made me feel flush with importance...like I was _somebody_. Yeah, I was somebody alright: A goofy goober with his head shoved up his yellow ass.

A dark weight pressed against his chest, and he drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly as he passed Patrick's rock. Patrick leaned against it, one arm out, and nodded. "Hey, Spongebob."

"Hey, Pat," Spongebob muttered.

Patrick's brows knitted in concern. "You okay, buddy?"

What can I say about Patrick? He's a good dude. He has a heart of gold...but a mind of bronze. I love him, but he's the most retarded motherfucker this side of congress. I swear, I don't know how he made it to twenty-eight; the only reason I believe in God anymore is cuz _someone's_ watching out for him. Just last week I watched this clown reach into a pot full of boiling water to grab a piece of coral. He shrieked like a woman, jumped back, and waved his glowing red stub around like an overzealous Nazi with a swazi flag. _MY HAND!_ I felt awful for him, but at the same time...dude, come on, I don't care how dumb you are, you had to know that was gonna fuck you up. He's worse than that blonde girl from the show where the kid has a thousand sisters. Patrick eats that shit up like it's candy, laughing with his one tooth hanging out. _Ha ha ha ha ha, good one, Luan!_ I think that show's gay. I like _Kitchen Nightmares._ That Ramsey dude's a beast. God, I'd hate to see him come into the KK. He'd cum his jeans over the food, but everything else would have him shaking with rage.

"I'm fine," Spongebob lied.

"Doesn't sound like it," Patrick said somberly. "You should take off work and hang out with me." He smiled and slapped his hands to his bare chest; scraggly black hair stuck out from under his pits and a shitty prison-tier Stingray5000 tat rippled across the pink, gum-like blubber of his upper arm.

Oh, yeah, sure, I'll just call in and get fired, that'll _really_ turn my life around.

See, Pat's on disability. He hasn't worked a day in life and with good reason. If they put him on a construction crew he'd probably wind up killing someone. He calls sitting around the house all day watching _The Weather Channel_ and eating Spam and Colgate sandwiches being "funemployed." I call it hell on earth. I'd rather lick the entire KK clean than spend my days like that.

"Can't, Patrick, gotta work," Spongebob said.

If you looked into Patrick's eyes. you could see the moment his hopes crashed to earth. "Oh. Okay. I'll be right here when you get back."

Spongebob shot him a thumbs up and kept going, his head down and his shoes squeaking against the pavement like a pair of little rubber ducky twins getting fucking pounded from behind. Umm. Now _that_ would cheer me up a little - slamming my dick into a honey.

Well...not just any honey.

Sandy Cheeks.

:Weary face:

Sandy, Bikini Bottom's most eligible minority, lived in a tree dome across town. She was a mammal so had to breathe air. Spongebob tried it once - it worse than mustard gas. A Texan by birth, Sandy was tall, brown, exotic, and when she turned those big, twinkling eyes on you, your heart stopped dead. She and Spongebob did some, ahem, experimenting with each other a while back but stopped short of penetration. Interspecies sex, she said, was wrong, but letting a sponge eat her pussy until her knees shook wasn't, apparently. And neither was sucking that same sponge drier than a cattle ranch on a hot August day.

She wanted them to stay friends, and that was fine, but...you know...deep down, Spongebob really liked her. When they were together, life's little problems didn't seem to matter so much anymore, and he felt _free_. Aside from Patrick, she was his best friend, and sometimes, when they were hanging out and she looked at him with a happy smile, it took everything he had to not cup her cheek in his palm and kiss her.

But yeah, that's probably not going to happen.

Sigh.

Another link in the chain.

Wasn't that a song?

Hm…

No, it was something about not breaking the chain. Whatever, it doesn't matter.

He crested a rise, and the Krusty Krab appeared in the distance, its sign reaching unto heaven like an outstretched hand from a grave. The Chum Bucket sat across the way, dark and shuddered like always. You know, Plankton's supposed to be a super genius, but has it ever occurred to him to sell something else? People don't want chum, they've made that clear. You know what they _do_ want, though? Tacos. We haven't had a good Mexican place in town since the health department shut _La Puta_ down three years ago. Was he smart enough to capitalize on that? No, he was too busy worrying about the secret formula. He said he was gonna use it to take over the world. Lmao, how are you gonna do that with a sandwich? Adolf Swordfish had an army of millions and couldn't do it, what chance do you stand with a bunch of hamburgers? Retard.

Five minutes later, he walked through the front door of the Krusty Krab and drew a deep, fortifying breath. Another day, another nickel. Lol. Seriously, Mr. Krabs underpays the fuck out of me.

Speaking of Mr. K., he stood behind the register sniffing a dollar like it was a pair of panties, his eyes rolling back in his head and a ribbon of drool coursing down his chin. Get this: One time me and Patrick tricked this guy into going on a panty raid at his own mother's house. The point was to get him to sniff the crotch and jack off into them, then casually mention where they came from….without bursting into laughter at the shocked horror on his face. She caught us, though, and we left Krabs for dead. HAHAHAHA.

At the time clock, he grabbed his card and punched in. One minute early. Wahoo. Employee of the month wall o' shame, here I come. He went into the kitchen, crossed to the grill, and fired it up. He looked around, and remembering how happy this place used to make him sent him spiraling. Maybe it's time for a change. I'm a young sponge still, I can do anything I set my mind to. Capital City was nice; maybe I'll go back there and work for the bank. Or Los Angelfish. That place looks really cool on TV, except for all the smog.

The door exploded open and he jumped a foot. Mr. Krabs, big as life and twice as ugly, loomed over him. "Spongebob!" he yelled.

Uh oh.

"Your workstation is a disaster, boy."

Spongebob looked around. Crumbs and empty wrappers littered the floor; grease and condiments splotched the counters; his spatula lay next to the grill, coated in gunk; oh, and the grill itself...blacker than a Lil' T concert. "Looks fine to me," Spongebob shrugged. It didn't, but oh well, pay me better.

"I want this place ship shape, boy; you're ruinin' me restaurant."

Before Spongebob could grab him by his throat and choke the life out of him, Mr. Krabs spun in a swish of sour sweat smelling air and stormed off.

 _Ruinin' me restaurant._

Fuck you, the only reason this shitshow's still around is because of _me._ I'm the one who does _all_ the work around here while you and Squidward dick off. I cook, I clean, I scrub the heads, I even tar the parking lot every two years. What does your fat, red ass do? What does that bald cock-nose PBS loving piece of shit Squidward do?

Seething, Spongebob whipped away from the grill and stalked to the sink, lashing out and kicking an empty box across the floor. Man, fuck this place. I oughta shit on the next patty someone orders. No, I know; I oughta tell Plankton the secret formula. It's [ **Redacted by order of FFN per injunction filed by Eugene Krabs].** I know, right? Everyone has that in their kitchen. Making a Krabby Patty at home is simple as one, two, three.

Leaning over the sink, Spongebob splayed his fingers on the edge and stared down into yesterday's gray, scummy water. His reflection glowered back, looking old, tired, and worn out. Where did it all go wrong? Too much of a good thing? For a while there he worked a good seventy-two hours a week - he'd come in at 3am to count the sesame seeds then only leave at six when Mr. Krabs kicked him out. _I got a life, boy, get lost._ On his days off, he'd come in for lunch and sneak back to the grill when Squidward wasn't looking just to cook a patty...one patty...that's all I need, one patty to take the edge of *crazed laughter* Sometimes, after trying and failing to sleep, he'd walk past the KK and just look at it with love and adoration in his eyes.

Now he hoped the fucking thing burned.

When Squidward called through the order window, Spongebob's shoulders tensed. "Hurry up and get these tickets, Spongebob. There's a line of people waiting for patties. God knows while; uncultured swine."

Taking a deep breath, Spongebob got to work.

* * *

Sheldon J. Plankton sat behind the desk in his office and intently watched the TV screen before him, his fingers steepled and his single red eye narrowed in concentration. He was clad in his at home attire: Brown shirt, brown pants, black jack boots, a Sam Browne belt, and a red armband with his symbol on it: A black, stylized P with sharp angles against a white background. The chrome walls were adorned with framed photos and propaganda posters of fascist and communist leaders from around the world, both his _and_ the one above: Swordfish, Stalin, Gaddafi a smiling Kim Il Sung, and Nicolae Ceausescu. Plankton was neither a Nazi nor a commie, but he admired and respected strongmen of every stripe. It takes a special breed of man to assume and wield complete power, and Plankton liked to think he was one of them. The dictators on his walls and the ones he read about in bed at night were his heros, his idols, and his kin men. One day, he was going to be just like them.

He just needed that goddamn secret formula first.

Onscreen, Spongebob flipped patties and looked bored.

"The rigors and demands of daily life are taking a toll on him," Plankton mused aloud, "he's overworked, underpaid, and no one respects him. He's miserable." Plankton threw back his head and laughed richly, the idea of Spongebob hating life and wishing for the sweet release of death deliciously pleasing. "How does it feel, you porous buffoon?" he asked the TV. "How does it feel to be so unsatisfied you lie awake at night wishing you were Mr. Krabs?" He leaned in, his nose pressing against the glass. "How does it feel to try and try and _try_ only to wind up in the sticky goo of your own folly again and again? How does it feel to own a restaurant no one eats at? Huh, you yellow bastard?" He slammed his fist against the desk. "How do you like it, you son of a bitch?" He sat back and laughed again. "What a loser."

"Oh, please," Karen said from her station behind him. Plankton forgot she was there. "You have more in common with him than you do any of those men you read about every night."

Ten years ago, Plankton developed the Wired Integrated Female Electroencephalograph (WIFE) software to ease his crushing loneliness and, hopefully, to get a little intimacy now and again. Like everything else he ever created, though, it went wrong, and instead of an obedient housewife who delighted in cooking wholesome meals and sucking her husband's dick after a long day, he got a nagging bitch who never missed a chance to down talk him. Six months ago he snapped and took her offline, but after a week he brought her back because he couldn't handle the deep, endless silence that permeated the Chum Bucket. He'd rather listen to her shit than to nothing at all. "Go away, Karen, I'm plotting," he said.

Instead, Karen rolled over, a computer on a long metal stand attached to a wheeled platform. She put her hands on what passed for her hips and favored him sternly. "Oh? What's the plan this time, genius?"

Her snide tone cut through him and he winced. He was suddenly aware of the warm, comforting weight of the Lugar on his hip. All he had to do was take it out, jam it against her screen, and pull the trigger. "If you _must_ know, I'm going to use Spongebob's newfound cynicism to my advantage."

"How do you plan to do _that?"_ Karen pressed.

A dark shadow fell across Plankton's face, and he smiled evilly. "You'll see," he said. "You'll _all_ see."


	2. Spongebob the Goofy Goober

Spongebob clocked out at 6pm and walked home through the gathering twilight, taking the long way through downtown Bikini Bottom to delay getting there: Evenings, staring blankly at the TV, were the hardest, and as he made his way along Central Avenue, he dreaded passing another.

Like a kidney stone.

He met people he knew along the way. Some spoke to him, some didn't. At an intersection, as he waited for the pedlight to change, Larry the Lobster strutted up like Neptune's gift to the sea. Spongebob rolled his eyes. Remember what I said earlier about Squidward being the only person I straight up hate? That's because I blocked out the existence of _this_ dickhead.

Larry was one of those guys who spent all of his time working out, looking at himself in the mirror, and being a jerk to everyone smaller than him. He had muscles on top of muscles, but no brain and no heart. "Heya, Spongebob," he said.

"Hi, Larry," Spongebob sighed.

Boats whizzed by in either direction, trapping him on the corner with Lunkhead Larry. C'mon, c'mon, hurry up. "I see your arms are still limp and noodly."

Spongebob grated and a snarky retort formed in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it. The harsh reality was that Larry would kick his ass and he couldn't do anything about it because he was weak.

That pissed him off even more.

"What'cha benching these days?" Larry asked, a malicious edge in his voice. "Teddy bears? Cotton swabs?"

Fuck it. He can kick my ass. "I benched your mother last night."

Larry's face darkened and he snatched Spongebob up by the front of his shirt. Spongebob's heart sputtered and his stomach turned. "What'd you say, you little creep?"

Just then, a boat filled with airhead girls pulled up and one stuck her head out the window. "Hey, Larry~"

Larry glanced at them...and grinned salaciously. "Oh, hey, Susie." He let Spongebob go, and he fell to the ground in a heap.

While Larry was distracted, Spongebob got the hell out of there and booked it west past a rush of posh storefronts. The lamps up and down the sidewalk came on one-by-one, their soft electric glow casting murky pools on the concrete. That meant it was seven. Sigh. If he walked really slow, he could be home by seven-twenty. If he was lucky, the Bikini Bottom Butcher would get him before he got there.

Oh, wait, they caught that guy.

Spongebob thought back to Perch Perkins interviewing the Butcher's shocked neighbors. _He seemed like such a nice guy._ Don't they all? If a serial killer walks around with a flashing neon sign that says HI, I'M A SERIAL KILLER, I BURY MY VICTIMS IN MY CRAWL SPACE they won't get very far in life. Remember that old lady they arrested a few years back? The one who killed snails and kept their shells in a closet? That bitch was cracked. She'd literally sit around the house with their bodies like they were alive, snuggling them, watching TV with them, probably raping them. They called her The Ghastly Grandma. I think they fried her ass.

At the corner of Central and West, he turned right and followed it to Conch Drive, his dread building as he drew closer to home. As he passed Patrick's rock, he considered dropping in for a while, ya know, to kill some time, but suddenly the thought of people, even his best friend, drained him. He heaved a heavy sigh and dragged himself up the walkway, the soles of his shoes scraping stone. He reached into his pocket, fished out his key, and inserted it into the lock.

Inside, it was dark and cold, like a cave. He snapped the light on, flooding the room with cold, hollow brilliance, and crossed over to his armchair, where he sat, shoulders sagging. Coming home shouldn't feel like a defeat, but it does. Waking up feels like a defeat too. And going to work. And going to boating school. Ugh, I fucking _hate_ boating school. I really want my driver's licence, though. I doubt _that's_ gonna happen. The moment I get behind the wheel I kind of...I dunno...freeze up. It's retarded, I know, but maybe I'm autistic. I used to peruse 4chan and people called me that all that time.

Anonymous 07/30/17(Sun)11:02:01 No.81570653

Hey, guys, beautiful day, isn't it?

81570653 (You)

Kys normalfag

Maybe I really _am_ autistic or something. I don't fucking know, but k'ing ms sounds really good right about now.

He glanced up at the kitchen threshold. All he had to do was get up, grab a knife from the drawer, and take a nice, long trip up the road.

Ehh...okay, he wasn't _that_ depressed; he'd settle for sleep.

His stomach grumbled.

But first, dinner.

Pushing himself up, he went into the kitchen. Gary lay on his side by the back door in a puddle of drool and snail slime, his side rising and falling with each exhalation. Awww, he looks like an angel.

At the fridge, Spongebob opened the freezer and scanned its contents: An empty ice tray, an empty box of coral bits, and a single frozen burrito. He had three bucks to his name and a week before payday; looked like he was going to Mom and Dad's for dinner for a few days. Oh, joy. He _hated_ doing that - every time he looked into their eyes, he saw shame and disappointment. He overheard them talking about him once. _He lives in a pineapple that_ we _pay for,_ Dad said, _he works a teenager's job, and he's failed his driver's' test more times than he failed fifth grade. *sigh* He's hopeless._

 _Yes, he is, dear,_ Mom replied, _but he's our son._

He ran away in tears and didn't talk to them for six months except to ask for money.

Reaching in, he grabbed the buttito, closed the freezer, and went to the cabinet. There were no plates.

Whatever.

He snatched one from the sink, ripped the burrito open, and laid it on, then shoved it into the microwave. While he waited, he leaned back against the counter and frowned down at his shoes. Maybe he should look for another job, one that _didn't_ involve flipping burgers and making minimum wage. Once he had something, he could save up, take over the mortgage from Mom and Dad, and pass his driver's test. That would show them. _Who's hopeless_ now, _Dad?_

For some reason he saw himself screaming that as he slammed his brand new boat into the side of his parents' house. The engine exploded and flames consumed him, burning his spongy flesh from his charing skeleton. In the conflagration, he lifted his hand and extended his middle finger, empty eye sockets gaping. _Who's hopeless noooooooooooow?_

He laughed out loud, and Gary startled.

If he wanted to go for double points, he'd have Mrs. Puff strapped into the passenger seat. _Spongebob, slow down, you're going to kill us!_

 _That's the point, Puff Mama._

You know, actually, if I'm gonna kamikaze myself, I should do it at the Krusty Krab. Steal Old Man Jenkins' crop duster from his barn and slam it into the front like my name's Mohamed Atta. I can see myself now, soaring over the tops of the buildings along Main Street, everyone looking up and shielding their eyes against the glare of the sun. _Look, in the sky. It's a bird. It's a plane. No, it's terrorism!_ The KK appeared up ahead, and he angled the plane down, the wind fluttering his scarf behind him, light reflecting off the lens of his goggles. Squidward, wiping the door with a wad of paper towels, looks up just as the plane hits, and for a split second, Spongebob can see the horror on his face, the stark realization that he was going to die in his eyes. Then -

Beep-beep-beep.

Spongebob turned, opened the microwave, and took out the plate, wincing in pain as the hot ceramic scorched his fingertips. "Shit," he hissed through his teeth. He dropped it onto the counter with a clank, picked up a fork from the sink, and cut the burrito into bite sized pieces. Guess I'll eat standing up like a loser. He impaled one of the chunks and shoved it into his mouth.

 _Meow._

"Go away, Gary, I'm eating."

 _Meow._ Gary brushed against Spongebob's leg.

Spongebob sighed. "You're not having any of my dinner. You have your own."

Gary responded by nipping Spongebob's leg.

SB fucking _flipped_. "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" Gary gaped dumbly, and Spongebob kicked him away, not hard but hard enough to shove him back a couple of inches. Gary's eyes narrowed and and he meowed.

Ignoring him, Spongebob went back to his food, sangrily stabbing a piece of burrito with the tines of his fork. As he ate, guilt started to creep in. He glanced at Gary, who glared at him from the shadows under the table, and sighed. He didn't mean to pop like that, and he felt like a shitlord for doing it. Still, every time he ate, Gary was right there beginning for scraps, and it's not like he could spare any. If he did, he'd go hungry.

 _Why don't you just eat the the Krusty Krab, Sponge?_ he could hear an imaginary audience of braindead assholes asking. Well. see, I've been working at that place forever, and I'm so fucking burned out on the food I could scream. I used to have a Krabby Patty every twenty minutes because _ummhmmm good!_ Now, I swear to Christ if I taste the secret sauce ever again, I'll puke. I fucking _dream_ about it sometimes. Tangy with a sugary undercurrent and hints of Old Bay, tartar sauce, mayo, and ketchup - shiver.

He looked over at Gary again and sighed. Sitting the fork down, he went over and knelt. Gary shied away like a skittish dog, and Spongebob's heart twinged. "Hey, buddy," he said haltingly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry I, uh, yelled. And kicked you. I'm just…" he trailed and drew a deep breath. "I'm just in a bad mood, is all. That doesn't excuse what I did, but...I didn't mean to."

Gary regarded him warily.

"Pals?" Spongebob held out his hand for a shake. Gary looked from it to Spongebob...then whipped his head to one side and slithered away.

Great. Now Gary's mad at me. Just perfect. Could my life get any worse?

Just then, someone knocked on the door.

Spongebob hung his head. Jesus Christ, I had to ask, didn't I? Pushing up to his feet, he dragged himself into the living room and to the door. He opened it and braced himself for whatever fresh hell awaited him.

"Hey, buddy," Patrick said happily. He wore trunks and nothing else, his flabby chest covered by a light layer of coarse black hair. It was chilly, and his nipples stuck obscenely out, the brown flesh around them wrinkled.

Spongebob's face crinkled in disgust. "Hi, Patrick," he muttered and turned away. Crossing to the couch, he dropped on and sighed again.

With a frown, Patrick joined him. "You okay?" he worried and laid his hand on Spongebob's shoulder.

For a moment, Spongebob considered lying, but blurted the truth instead. "No, Patrick. I'm _not_ okay. I'm depressed, unfulfilled, and starting to think I'm a loser. My boss underpays and overworks me, my parents think I'm a failure, I have no money, I can't pass my driver's test. I'm staring thirty in the face and still a virgin, my snail hates me, Squidward's a prick...I hate my life, Patrick, and I hate most of the people in it."

Stunned silence followed.

"Wow," Patrick said, "you're really down in the dumps." He smiled dumbly. "I know what'll cheer you up."

Twenty minutes later, they sat side-by-side at the bar at Goofy Goober. Happy teenagers sipped milkshakes, danced to the jukebox, and stole quick, timid kisses from one another. Spongebob stared down at the Triple Gooberberry Sunrise in front of him. It had bananas for arms and a smiley face made of frosting and gumdrops for eyes. Chocolate sauce dripped down its face like blood from a seeping scalp wound. He looked around, taking in the festivities around him, and blew a puff of air. "Patrick, this isn't helping."

"Well, finish your sunrise," Patrick said, "things always look better after dawn." He winked and nudged Spongebob's side.

Now he was making puns like that dumb girl in that dumb show.

Sigh.

I should have stayed home.

Dipping his spoon into the ice cream, he brought it to his lips and sneered. He wasn't in the mood to eat, and sure as hell wasn't in the mood to watch everyone else have a good time while he wallowed in misery. "I don't know," he said, "I should probably go."

"Nonsense. You need to get your mind off your problems, and nothing does that like a Gooberberry Sunrise."

Well...it _did_ look good. "Okay," Spongebob said. "But just one."

"That's all I ask," Patrick said.

Yeah, it didn't go down like that. One turned into two and two to five or something; Spongebob lost count as the ice cream clouded his brain and dulled his senses. After a while, the room started to spin and sounds came muffled as though heard underwater. By his eighth or whatever, he was swaying back and forth on his stool. He did not feel the happiness that comes with a good drunk, though; he felt only sadness.

And rage.

"I gave that fucking piece of _shit_ the best years of my life," he slurred. He leaned heavily against the bar and fought to keep himself from tumbling off his chair. "And he treats me like dirt. Not to mention Sandy. I'm good enough for a quick pussy licking but not to be her boyfriend? _Yee-haw, yer just a sponge, Spongebob, I need me a land critter with a big DICK!"_

At the end of the counter, the bartender shot him a dirty look, and people sitting at tables gaped at him in shock. He didn't notice and wouldn't have cared if he had. "Fuck her. You know what? Fuck everyone."

Patrick, eyes bleary, nodded. "Yeah, buddy," he hiccuped.

"Shut up, fuck you too."

The bartender came over, his face set in a hard glower. "Hey, buddy, keep talking like that and I'm gonna make you leave."

Was that a challenge? Spongebob leaned over the counter, and slowly, enunciating each word so the bartender got the message, he said, " u, e."

"That's it!"

The bartender came around the counter, grabbed Spongebob and Patrick by the scruffs of their necks, and dragged them out the door to the claps and cheers of the other patrons. "You are banned for life," he said as he flung them to the dirt. "Do not come back."

Picking himself up and dusting himself off, Spongebob waved him off. "This place sucks anyway. Your ice cream tastes like balls." He looked down at Patrick - he lay prone on the ground, snoring. "Pfft. Lightweight."

Mind roaring, Spongebob stumbled off into the night. Fuck Sandy, fuck his parents, fuck Mr. Krabs, fuck all of them. This town could suck his ass. In fact, he was gonna pay Mr. Krabs a visit, tell him to his face what a fucking dickhole he was.

Somehow, he made his way to Mr. Krab's house at a shamble. In the side yard, he fell drunkenly to his knees, scooped up a handful of sand, and flung it at the kitchen window. "I want a raise, you bastard!" he slurred. A light clicked on in a second story window, and Spongebob stumbled to his feet. "That's right, you red faggot, I want my money!"

The sash opened, and Pearl stuck her head out, her blonde hair in purple curlers. She squinted down at him. "Spongebob? What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm gonna fight your old man."

"Wha -?"

"WORLDSTAR!"

She frowned. "Are you drunk?"

"Send your dad out here and we'll see who's drunk. WORLDSTAR!"

Pearl opened her mouth, but Spongebob cut her off. "WORLDSTAR!"

"Whatever," she muttered with a sad shake of the head. She pulled back in and lowered the window.

Hot anger boiled over in his chest. "Don't walk away from me, bitch!" He bent to get another handful of sand, intent of smashing her window pane with it, but his balance upset and he pitched forward, face planting with a breathless _umph._ He started to push up and paused when the front door opened. Mr. Krabs came around the side of the house in a spill of porch light, his fat body clad in a billowing night shirt.

Spongebob's eyes narrowed. That man rode him like a rented scooter day in and day out for years, and barely paid him for his troubles. Nothing Spongebob ever did was good enough; he could pump out a thousand patties at a time and Krabs would _still_ piss and moan. He was just like Squidward. "Just the asshole I wanted to see," Spongbob slurred and stood, swaying back and forth. "Nice dress."

Mr. Krabs' eyes lidded. "What are you doing here, boy? You're interrupting me sleep."

"I came to deliver a message," Spongebob said. He jabbed Mr. Krabs in the chest. "You're a cheap, tight-fisted old faggot and I'm done working for peanuts."

Mr. Krabs turned even redder than he already was. "What was that?" he asked tightly.

"You heard me, crinkle nose, I want a raise _and_ a corner office. Or I'm quitting."

For a moment, Mr. Krabs simply glared at him. "You better leave," he finally said, his voice a low grumble.

"Not until I get my raise," Spongebob said.

Without another word, Mr. Krabs turned and walked away. In his life, Spongebob had been spat on, shoved into lockers, dunked in toilets, punched and called every name you can imagine...but never had he been more insulted. "That's right, run back to your hole," he slurred. "Jew bastard. I bet you sucked a mean dick in the navy." Mr. Krabs tensed and his claws clenched into fists. Ha, getting to you, Krabby? "Squidward says you're the best he ever had. Old Armor Abs? More like Old _Cock_ sucker."

For a second there looked like Mr. Krabs was going to say something, but instead, he disappeared around the side of the house and went inside.

Piece of shit.

"I'm not leaving until I get my raise!"

He dropped to his butt and settled in for a long wait.

Ten minutes later, the police showed up.

* * *

Plankton lay in bed struggling to sleep, one arm bent behind his head and Karen next to him, facing away. Earlier, he implied that he had a plan for how to harness Spongebob's negative attitude. He did not, and ever since, he'd been trying to come up with something, but for naught. Try as he might, he couldn't see a way to use that yellow idiot. Brainwashing? Maybe. He tried that before and it never worked; he doubted it would now, even given Spongebob's recent dissatisfaction with life.

Sighing, he turned to Karen. The blanket covered her to the chest. Every night they did this, lying silently on their sides of the bed, neither speaking to the other, cold tension thick between them. How long had it been since she let him have his way with her? Weeks? Months? Long enough that he could scarcely remember what she felt like. He had so much passion to give, but no one to give it to; it backed up into his system and made him crazy, rotted like fruit on the vine, festering in his loins day after day until it kept him awake and burning with fever. He masturbated, but that wasn't good enough. He needed another living being to mount and dominate - he was sick of blowing his loads into wads of toilet paper.

Reaching out, he laid his hand on Karen's shoulder...or what would have been her shoulder if she was a real woman. Assuming a sexy tone, he said, "How about some lovin'?"

"Go to sleep, Plankton," Karen sighed.

Plankton's face darkened. "Why do you always do this to me? I'm your husband, I demand to know you carnally."

"Yippie," she said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "Thirty seconds of you pounding my headphone jack, then me finishing myself off after you're asleep. How romantic."

Plankton's hand wilted and fell to the bed. He turned away, a single tear forming in his eye. "If that's how you feel," he muttered.

"It is. Now go to sleep."

He rolled over, curled up, and stared at the wall. He never should have programmed that stupid WIFE bot. He thought it was a good idea at the time, but he thought a lot of ideas were good when his brain first farted them out. To a one, they blew up in his face. He tried to write, and every editor he sent his dreck to rejected him; he applied for a professorship at Underwater University, and they laughed him out of the office; every attempt to steal the Krabby Patty secret formula lead to him lying in a puddle of failure and misery.

Simmering hatred filled his chest, and he bared his teeth into the darkness. He curled his hand into a fist and tried to catch a glimpse at Karen from the corner of his eye but couldn't.

He'd kill her.

Kill her and make a new WIFE bot, one that didn't reject him night after lonely night, one that didn't taunt him, one that loved and obeyed him. Then, together, they would take over the world and enslave the human race. And every other race, too. They'd reopen Auschwitz, erect a new Berlin Wall, send Jews, blacks, gays, whites, straights, and Christians to the gas chamber - they'd fuck and fuck and fuck until their offspring overran the earth, part computer, part evil genius. Meanwhile, Karen would rust in a shallow grave like the garbage she was.

He cracked a cold, slimy smile. Soon.

He just needed to find a way to use Spongebob.


	3. Breaking Point

**Skillet-Writer: I hope you liked whatever you read.**

Blinding white light; the hollow metal clang of doors sliding closed with grim finality; the astringent, nostril-raping odor of fresh piss - those were the things that greeted Spongebob when he came ponderously awake, a moan drifting from his chapped lips. He was huddled on his side, a raging headache throbbing between his temples and a greasy weight in the pit of his stomach. He rolled onto his back and peeled open one gummy eyelid, the all-consuming brilliance stinging the tender orb. He shifted to his other side, drew his knees to his chest, and hugged himself tightly, trying to sink back into oblivion but failing.

"That sponge got a purdy mouth."

Spongebob froze. What was _that?_

Oh, God, someone was in his house.

He sat up like a shot, and vertigo crashed over him like a storm surge. The first thing he saw was a cracked and water splotched cinder block wall straight ahead, and his brow knitted in confusion. Uh...okay...that's not right. He caught a flash of movement in his periphery, and turned to a barred door beyond which a cop with a big badge on his chest walked along a hallway, whistling and spinning his baton. Though his mind was foggy, he knew it an instant where he was.

Holy fish paste. Why am I in jail? Did I litter? He tried to think back to the events of the previous night, but was horrified to find that he couldn't remember anything after Patrick knocking on his door.

Oh, Jesus, if Patrick was involved, anything could have happened. Not only is the guy basically retarded, he has legit anger issues. God, what if we killed someone?

And why can't I remember?

He reflexively swallow, and his lips puckered at the foul taste in his mouth. He knew it, he just couldn't place -

Then it hit him.

Gooberberry sunrise.

Horror filled him - he and Patrick got wasted at Goofy Goober's. A memory came back to him then: Shambling through the nighttime streets of Bikini Bottom, rage burning like a bed of coals in his chest.

Sweet mother of mercy, what did I do? WHAT DID I DO?

Something rustled to his left, and he jerked around to see a swordfish in an orange jumpsuit sitting on a bench, his massive, muscular arms straining against the fabric and his hardened face crisscrossed with scars and poorly-rendered tattoos. Next to him was a tall, wiery sea cucumber with a leering smile. "Mornin', sleepyhead," the cucumber said, his sharky grin widening. He leaned forward, and Spongebob shrank instinctively back, his heart stopping mid beat. He'd never been to prison before, but he watched lots of Lock-Up: Raw, so he knew what they did to soft, spongey guys like him. Hint: Rape. They raped guys like him.

His butthole clenched.

The swordfish took a crumpled pack of sea-cigarettes from inside his jumpsuit, shook one out, and plopped the filter into his mouth. "You want one, boy?" he asked.

Spongebob shook his head. "Uh, n-no, thanks. I-I don't smoke."

"You sure about that?" the cucumber asked. His eye twinkled suggestively and Spongebob's butt puckered even harder. "You look like you like puttin' things in your mouth." He hissed cold, reptilian laughter.

The swordfish simply lit his smoke and inhaled, bubbles rising from his mouth. "Whaddaya in for?" he asked.

Good question, buddy, I'd like to know that too. He tried to penetrate the drunken fog in his brain, but the last memory he could conjure was him on his knees and ralphing at the side of the road while boats whipped by in either direction. _Hey, fag, where's your bike?_ he remembered someone calling. What are _you_ talking about? The last bike he owned was two years ago, and it got trashed when Patrick stupidly rode it into the side of his rock at top speed while doing his best Spongebob impression. _I'm ready! I'm ready! I'm- ow, my fucking face!_

His heartbeat sped up when he realized he couldn't recollect shit after that. Maybe the cops ran him in on a drunk in public...or, oh God, maybe he killed someone.

Or worse.

Maybe he littered.

His stomach clutched. If he littered, he was fucked; Bikini Bottom does not _play_ with litterbugs. They passed a new law three years ago that made it a felony punishable by up to seven years in jail and a 50,000 dollar fine.

Starting to shake and suck great gulps of air, Spongebob wrestled control of himself from the jaws of hysteria and hugged his knees to his chest. It made him look small and weak, but he didn't give a shit because he _was_ small and weak. They'd eat his asshole alive in prison. They'd do to him what they did to that guy up top, what was his name? He killed a bunch of nurses in the sixties. Anyway, in prison, the other inmates made him take hormones to grow his breasts, then passed him around like a cum-crusted tubesock. They made a video and everything; dude had tits like a woman and sucked some black guy off in exhange for coke. It was the most fucked thing Spongebob had ever seen, and he knew in an instant that the same fate awaited him. Hell, knowing his luck, it would probably be worse: They'd cut his yellow, springy duck off and turn the seeping hole into a pussy...and every thrust would rip it wide open again.

He'd be dead by Christmas.

 _Fuck that, I'd_ rather _be dead._

 _Oh, he chooses death *_ disappointed head hang*

 _BY POONTAH!_

OH, NO!

Spongebob's teeth clacked, and the cucumber laughed. "You scared, ain't ya?" He slapped his hands on his knees and leaned forward, a wild look creeping into his eyes. Spongebob gulped and tried to scoot away, but he was frozen in fear. The cucumber flashed a slow smile, revealing rows of crooked, yellowed teeth, then ran the tip of his tongue obscenely along his chapped lower lip. "You don't gotta be scared," he said, his voice coming in a husky whisper.

Yes, I fucking do!

"You know why?"

Spongebob didn't know why and he didn't care, but he found himself shaking his head anyway.

"Because," the cucumber said, "I'll protect you."

Yeah but at what cost?

Heh.

Butt.

Because he's going to anally rape me.

The cucumber shifted off the bench and got down on his knees; Spongebob's heart blasted, and he scuttled fearfully back, the concrete floor cold under his hands. He didn't stop until his hit the bars, then held himself even tighter; it was his only defense.

A wicked smile danced across the cucumber's mouth. "Be good to me, sponge, and I'll be good to you."

"F-F-Fuck you," Spongebob stammered.

The cucumber's smile sharpened. "Exactly."

He started to walk forward on his knees, and Spongebob shrieked like a little bitch.

"Leave him alone," the swordfish croaked.

The cucumber stopped, a look of uncertainty crossing his features. "Come on, Rex, I - "

"Leave him alone," the swordfish repeated. Firm Gruff. Authoritative.

The cucumber sighed and fixed Spongebob with a withering gaze. _Later,_ he mouthed.

A violent shudder tore through Spongebob's body and his penis retracted so far into his stomach that his body started digesting it. The cucumber got up, dusted off his knees, and sat, the bench creaking under his weight. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, the swordfish blew the smoke out in a long, bluish plume that hung hazily in the cell like the lingering spirits of ghosts with unfinished business. _Wait a minute, brah, there's a chick changing over here._ "What's your name?" he asked.

Spongebob darted his eyes from him to the cucumber and back again. "S-Spongebob."

"I'm Rex," the swordfish said, then jutted his chin in the direction of the cucumber, "and that's Lionel. What did you say you were in for again?"

"I-I can't remember," Spongebob said, "I was...I was kinda drunk.

Rex laughed heartily and nodded his understanding. "I've been there before. Stuck a guy in his guts during a bar fight, choked a cop, and took a bullet to the arm drunk once." He took another puff. "Or so they tell me."

Jesus, he sounded tough.

I better lie.

"It was probably, you know...my coworker."

Rex raised his brows. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Spongebob let out a nervous chuckle. "I guess I finally made good on that threat to rip off his head and shit down his neck."

Rax regarded him with a blank stare...then burst out laughing like Spongebob just told him the best joke in the world. _What's the deal with salt shakers? I mean, you fill them up at the end of every night...where does it all go?_ "No offense, kid," Rex said and brushed a tear from his eye, "but you couldn't rip the head off a wet paper doll."

While that was true, Spongebob was mad offended anyway. He wasn't going to say anything, though.

"You probably jaywalked and puked on the arresting officer's shoes," the swordfish mused and stared at the ashy end of his cigarette like the answers to all life's mysteries could be found therein. He chuckled, because his quip was _soooo_ funny, then squinted thoughtfully at Spongebob. At a glance, he was in his mid-forties, maybe even closer to fifty, his cracked-leather face crisscrossed with the faded scars of a brawler's youth. His eyes were flat brown and piercing, the stare of a man who's seen too much...on more than one occasion. "This is your first time, huh?"

Should I lie again?

Why bother? It's obvious I'm a soft ass normalfag. "Yeah. It's...it's my first time."

"You better hope you didn't do something _really_ bad," Rex said. "You wouldn't last five minutes in the clink. They'd make you the D-Block bitch so fast your tie will spin."

Gulp. I know.

"Gives me something to grab onto," Lionel said. He mimed pulling Spongebob's tie and thrusted his hips back and forth.

Oh, dear Neptune!

When someone spoke behind him, Spongebob jumped like his name was David Lee Roth. "Squarepants."

A guard in sunglasses and a cap stood on the other side of the bars, his face as hard and craggy as Rex's. He wore a gray shirt with a silver badge and a billy club on one hip. He looked like the kind of guy who'd crack you over your head first, then ask questions never because he didn't give a shit, and neither did his superiors. Police corruption and brutality were the norm in Bikini Bottom - and everywhere else under the sea, for that matter. They didn't play that namby-pamby liberal shit down here the way they did on the surface; the moment you stepped outside of polite society, you were automatically an enemy of the people, and cops treated you like an enemy.

Gladly.

"You made bail."

The band squeezing Spongebob's chest released. I did?

That's what's up!

The guard stepped back, and the door slid open with a shivering clank. Spongebob jumped to his feet and hurried through, the back of his neck tingling in expectation of a blow. Until it was closed again, he was sure Lionel would grab him, drag him back in, and plow his ass hole like it was a pile of snow. Rex dropped his cigarette onto the floor and stomped it out. "Good luck, kid," he said.

Spongebob realized he was sheltering behind the guard's long, spindly legs like a little girl, but he didn't care, right now his pride didn't mean a goddamn thing. "It-It was nice meeting you guys," he said.

"The pleasure was _all_ mine," Lionel said.

Ew.

The guard turned and stalked down the hall, past empty holding cells, and Spongebob hurried to catch up. Alright, so I didn't kill anyone and I didn't litter, otherwise they wouldn't be letting me out, so thank fucking God for that. Rex must have been right about that jaywalking shit.

A metal door with a wire mesh window stood at the end of the corridor. The guard opened it and the squad room of the Bikini Bottom Police Department opened up before them, a wide space dominated by desks, ringing phones, harried detectives in rumpled suits, and fat desk sergeants with permanent doughnut stains on their lips. The guard lead him to a counter, and when Spongebob saw who waited for him, his relief turned inexplicably to indigestion.

Mr. Krabs, arms crossed and a deep glower on his face.

A memory from the night before bobbed up from the recesses of Spongebob's mind like an ominous message from an 8-Ball. _Nice dress, faggot._

Before he could puzzle out what that meant, the guard shoved him toward Mr. Krabs, and he nearly went to his knees. "There. He's _your_ problem now."

"Aye," Mr. Krabs grumbled, "and I'll be dealin' with him."

Uh-oh. Something tells me I fucked up _real_ bad last night.

"Come on, boy," Mr. Krabs said distastefully. He turned and started for the door, and Spongebob had no choice but to follow. Outside, the sunlight stung his eyes and he held his hand up to block out the glare. Obviously Mr. Krabs is pissed, so I must have done something to him or the KK. I was fucking mad last night, and in that frame of mind, I was capable of anything. Jesus, Jesus, stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. Nice job, Spongebob.

Mr. Krabs' boat sat at the curb behind a blue and white police cruiser. He slipped in behind the wheel and Spongebob sat stiffly in the passenger seat, a worried expression clenching his face. The atmosphere between them was dark and oppressive, and slick nerves coiled in the pit of Spongebob's stomach.

Turning the key in the ignition, Mr. Krabs guided the boat away from the curb, merged with traffic, and followed Main Street west, toward Conch Drive. Spongebob studied him from the corner of his eye; the old man held the wheel in a white knuckle death grip and glared at the road ahead like it owed him money. His muscles were tensed and one eyelid twitched almost imperceptibly, a tick that never failed to betray his wrath.

Oh, man, he's _livid._

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and harsh. "We need to have a talk, boy."

I'd rather not. Out loud: "A-About what?"

"About what ya did last night."

Spongebob's guts knotted. Oh….heh...that. "Uh...Mr. Krabs?"

"Yes, boy?"

"What, uh...what did I do last night?"

Mr. Krabs favored him with a nasty glance, and Spongebob's heart skipped. "Ya don't remember, do ya?"

Spongebob shook his head.

"Ya came to me home," Mr. Krabs said, "drunk and yellin', insulted me masculinity, called me names, and...worst of all...ya asked for a raise."

Spongebob's stomach dropped. There are some things in this life you just don't fucking do, like spit into the wind, pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger...and ask Mr. Krabs for money. You think I'm kidding about him being a tight-fisted Jew, oh, no. He's the cheapest son of a bitch in the seven seas. You know what he did for Christmas last year? He gave me and Squidward each a bag of penny candy. Generous, huh? Yeah, well, inside mine was one of those little promotional cards you find from time to time. It said WIN A TRIP TO THE 2001 GRAMMYS. It was 2018 when that happened. Oh, and one time, I needed an advance on my pay so, you know, I could _eat_ , and he gave it to me...then when payday rolled around, he charged me _interest_. I didn't get another paycheck for three weeks. Squidward asked to borrow five bucks one time to cover his subscription to _Dicksucker Monthly_ or something, and Mr. Krabs literally snatched the register, cradled it to his chest, and started foaming at the mouth. _Fuck you, Mr. Squidward, fuck yoooooooooou._

In other words, asking Mr. Krabs for money is about as smart as walking up to a mob boss and poking him in the eyes. _N'yuk, n'yuk, n'yuk, hey, guys, it was just a joke, I swear, why are you - ?_ *Takes icepick to the brain*

"Spongebob," Mr. Krabs said, bringing Spongebob back, "ya been workin' fer me fer a while now, and you're good at what ya do...but you're gettin' uppity."

Uppity?

Sensing his confusion, Mr. Krabs said, "Ya think you're the cat's meow. Ya got a swollen ego. Yer reaching above yer station, boy. You're a frynigger. Nothin' special."

That gave him pause. Nothing special? Nothing special? Are you fucking kidding me? Righteous indignation filled him. "Mr. Krabs, with all due respect, I think I _am_ special. Not only do I do my job, and do it well, I do Squidward's too. I come in early every day, stay late, clean everything top to bottom - if I've reaching above and beyond something, it's my duty. I - "

"Yer fired."

Spongebob sputtered. "Fired?"

"Ya heard me. Yer no longer welcome in me restaurant."

A bomb blast of rage detonated in Spongebob's chest, and he hands curled into shaking fists. I give this red bastard the best years of my life - I went out of my way to always be a good employee and to keep the KK running shipshape - and he doesn't appreciate it. It means nothing to him. He sits on his fat ass all day while _I_ basically run his restaurant for him, and what do I get in return? A higher salary? A manager role? A fucking _thank you, boy,_ every once in a while? No, I get treated like shit, underpaid, dicked around, and fired. I'm not just any fucking employee off the street. I'm Spongebob Squarepants, and you know what? I'm the best fry cook he's ever had and ever _will_ have.

"You can't fire me," Spongbob said.

Mr. Krabs cut him off. "I just did."

They were parked in front of Spongebob's pineapple now. Gary's face peered out from one of the second story windows, his food dish jutting insistently from his mouth. Red, pulsing anger swept through Spongebob like a wildfire; his lips pulled back from his teeth in a sneer, his skin blushed with heat, and his eyes flashed like warning sirens. His vision doubled, and for a moment, he thought he was going to black out.

"Listen here, you crustaceous cheapskate - "

"Get the fuck outta me boat."

Mr. Krabs' arm shot out, and heart in throat, Spongebob tumbled out and landed in a heap on the ground. Mr. Krabs hit the gas, and the boat took off like a rocket, its tires squealing on the pavement. Spongebob gaped after him, then, brow lowering, he got up and dusted himself off. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he let out a cry of, "Faggot!"

Motherfucker, how dare he do this to me, I made the KK what it is today, before I came along, no one gave a FUCK about it. If it wasn't for me, that place woulda been shut down three years ago. He'll see. I give a week before he comes crawling on his hands and knee, _Please come back, me boy, I'm ruined without you._

Spinning on his heels, Spongebob started up the walk, but stopped with a grate when Patrick called out to him. "Hey, buddy."

Patrick.

This is _his_ fault. If he left me alone last night, I woulda just wallowed and cried myself to sleep like normal, but noooo, he had to waddle his pink ass over and make things even worse.

Spongebob was seething now, and if he didn't get himself inside and away from the world to decompress, he was going to go nuclear. He ignored Patrick and started walking again.

"Crazy night last night, huh?" Patrick asked.

Then he laughed.

And even though Spongebob knew he wasn't, he couldn't help feeling like Patrick was laughing at _him._

"Fuck you, Patrick," Spongebob growled.

Patrick recoiled. "What?" he asked.

There was a wounded inflection in his voice that only served to make Spongebob even madder.

"I spent the night in jail because of you," Spongebob said, his voice rising, "I got fired because of YOU!"

Patrick rolled his eyes and breathed a dismissive sigh. This _shit again?_

That pissed Spongebob off all the more.

"Yeah, cuz I forced that gooberberry sunrise down your throat then made you do whatever you did after we left."

"I was fine until you showed up," Spongebob shot back. The smug look on Patrick's face and the overbearing tsk-tsk-tsk tone of his voice pushed Spongebob to the edge of a breakdown. Look at this dumb shit talking to me like _I'm_ the idiot. This motherfucker can barely count to ten and couldn't even wipe his own ass until he was in high school. I am so fucking sick of everyone acting like they're better than me when they're _clearly_ not.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "That's your problem, Spongebob," he said patronizingly, "you always blame everyone else for your shortcomings. You skip merrily through life with a glazed look in your eyes tossing the seeds of your own folly left and right, but when it comes time to reap your harvest, you bellyache like a little baby. You chose to work at a fast food joint then complain because you can't make a decent living; you fail to apply yourself at boating school, and wonder why you don't have your license; when the girl you love said _let's just be friends_ -" here he fisted his hands to one cheek and mockingly batted his eyelashes, then let his face fall back into blank apathy " - you accepted it rather than pursue her like a man. You constantly take and take from your parents, then can't figure out why they draw the blinds when they see you coming and pretend they aren't home."

Spongebob shook violently now like a rocket getting ready to take off. Each one of Patrick's words stung harder than the last...because deep down, he knew they were true.

"You are the architect of your own destiny, Spongebob, and what you've built is a sad, withered little life full of regrets. You look upon the blackened fruits of your labor, then blame the soil, the weather, Old Man Jenkins - everyone and everything but yourself. Instead of taking responsibility for your own actions like an adult, you shove your head up your yellow ass like an ostrich and go _I can't hear you, I can't can't hear you_ while your world burns down around you. You used to be cool, but you know what, Spongebob? You're turning into another Squidward."

Spongebob fucking _lost_ it. "FUCK YOU, YOU FAT BITCH!" he shrieked. "AT LEAST I CAN HOLD DOWN A JOB, WHAT ABOUT YOU? FAT FUCK, FAT SHIT, HOW DARE YOU CALL ME A TAKER? YOU LIVE ON WELFARE!"

Patrick chuckled humorlessly. "I could hold down a job," he said, "but then I'd be bitter and miserable like you."

The world grayed, and before he knew it, Spongebob was stalking over. I'm gonna kill this son of a bitch, then I'm gonna kill Mr. Krabs, I'm gonna kill everyone in this shithole town. My fault? I work my fucking ass off from sunup to sunset while guys like Patrick use and use and use but never give anything back. I don't care how stupid this motherfucker is, I'm sick of paying for his free ride. Oh, I'm funemployed. No, you're not, you're a fat, jobless waste of life who has the AUDACITY to shit talk me? Where does he think the check he rushes to cash every first of the month comes from? Hard working people like me! _I_ pay for his food. _I_ keep his power on. _I'm_ the reason he has a functioning TV set. Just like I'm the reason the KK hasn't collapsed. I give everything I have AND NO ONE APPRECIATES IT!

All of the hatred and anger that had been building in him for years locked onto Patrick like a laser guided missile. Mr. Krabs didn't matter, Sandy didn't matter, nothing mattered, there was nothing _to_ matter but the pink whale in front of him.

Spongebob's fists tightened and he chest expanded and contracted with his ragged breathing. Patrick watched him come with a lack of concern that enraged him, like he was nothing more than a bug easily brushed away and not the dangerous, end-of-his-rope madman he really was. He lifted his finger and jabbed it hard into Patrick's chest. Patrick darted his eyes to it then to Spongebob's face. "You're a jobless sack of shit, Patrick, and I'm sick of people like you using me then throwing me away."

Patrick let out another humorless chuckle. When he spoke, his voice was flat and devoid of emotion. "Spongebob, you better back up. You're getting on my nerves."

"Fuck you," Spongebob said, jamming his finger into Patrick's blubber even harder. "You're the biggest welfare whore in town and everyone knows it. Everyone laughs behind your back and calls you Stamps. _Here comes Stamps with his EBT card._ I go to the store and get three things with my money, you go to the store and get _EVERYTHING_ with my money. You wanna talk to me about my parents pretending they aren't home? Yours would do the same thing if you didn't forget where they live!"

"I know where my parents live," Patrick said tightly.

"In Coral City," Spongebob said, "so they don't have to deal with their retarded son.'

A dark shadow crossed Patrick's face and he seemed to stand a little taller. Adrenaline coursed through Spongebob's veins and he dug his heels into the ground. Come on, fuck, anytime you're ready, "I suggest you drop this, Spongebob. I wouldn't want to - "

"Retard," Spongebob taunted, "fuckwit, no brains. You know why you like that dumb blonde girl on TV? She reminds you of yourself, but let me tell you...you make her look like a rocket scientist. Dumbass."

So quick Spongebob couldn't react, Patrick's fist smashed into his eye and drove him back. Stars burst across his field of vision and he dropped to the ground like a sack of doorknobs. Patrick loomed over him, shoulders rising and falling with the tide of his breathing, and terror gripped Spongebob's chest. Patrick started to draw his foot back for an American History X level curb stomp, but he stopped himself. "When you're done being like this," he hissed, "come see me."

With that, he turned, lifted his rock, and jumped into the crater beneath. The rock landed with an earth-shaking rumble and Spongebob was alone, pain throbbing in the center of his skull. He sat where he was a moment, tears welling in his eyes, then he jumped to his feet and rushed away, wandering aimlessly into the sandy wilderness flanking Conch Drive. Fuck Patrick. What does he know? I break my back to make a better life for myself while he sits in his armchair and giggles at Nickelodeon like an overgrown fucking child. The only thing I'll admit to is being stupid. I was stupid to think Mr. Krabs gave a rat's ass, I was stupid to think he'd ever be grateful for everything I did, I was stupid to stay at the KK for as long as I did. I should have woken up and smelled the coffee a long time ago, but I didn't because I had hope, and hope can lead a guy into some pretty dumb places.

He was in downtown now, boats whipping by the in the streets and people brushing past him on the sidewalk like he was nothing. No one looked at him, no one thought about him, no one cared. He might as well have been a crumpled up ball of yellow trash. And if anyone _did_ notice him, it would only be to laugh, or sneer, or shove him out of the way. You ever feel like the world's against you? I do, all the time, like everyone hates me and everyone's my enemy. What, do I give off a certain vibe? Can people _smell_ it on me? I just don't get it…

Maybe Patrick's right and it _is_ all my fault.

Depressed now, he dropped onto a bench facing the street, hung his head, and took a deep breath.

Maybe I am kind of a fuck up, but Mr. Krabs used and wasted years of my life...he chewed me up and spit me out. I asked for a raise and he cared more about a few extra dollars in the till than he did about me.

Fuck him.

I hope that son of a bitch dies.

I oughta get back at him.

But how?

* * *

Sheldon J. Plankton, clad in a trench coat and fedora, shifted the paper bag of groceries to his left arm, flipped through his keys, and found the right one. He inserted it into the lock, pushed the door open with his hip, and went inside.

The Chum Bucket was a nest of shadows as always; cobwebs fluttered in the corners and a thick layer of dust coated the dining room's chrome surfaces. A balled up napkin lay under one table, and a roach scuttled fearfully into a crack in the wall. The last customer he had was a long haul trucker from Shell City pulling a load of typewriters to the Marianas, a big, rough hewn man in a plaid shirt and baseball cap with a mesh back. Plankton made small talk with him while he ate - his name was Bob and he had a wife and three kids. He finished his meal, patted his stomach (dear God, he actually likes the food!)...then slumped over dead. Karen scanned his corpse and said it was a heart attack, his arteries being clogged by years of accumulated fast food grease, but that didn't stop her from taunting him about the food being responsible. _So that's your big plan, huh? Kill everyone with chum._

Setting the bag on one of the bench seats, Plankton removed his hat, went over to the coat rack, and hung it up, followed by his jacket. Beneath, he wore tan slacks, a brown shirt with a black belt across the chest, and a number of medals he did not earn pinned to his breast, many of them German but a few Soviet. He picked them up at a military surplus store in town and wore each one with the swelling pride of a man who fought...even though the only struggle he went through in acquiring them was getting his credit card out of his wallet.

Oh, and let's not forget Karen nagging him when he got home. _You're always wasting money we don't have, Sheldon,_ she whined,

Well, my dear computer wife, you can always get a job.

She uttered a shrill, hateful laugh when he said that, as though the idea of her seeking gainful employment was deliciously funny.

With a sigh, Plankton grabbed the bag and carried it into the grimy kitchen. Once, years ago, he won Spongebob in a poker game from Krabs and renovated the place to make it look exactly like the kitchen at the Krusty Krab. He never bothered to change it back because what was the point? He used it less than he used his penis on Karen.

The bitter memory of last night's rejection came back to him, and his lips turned down in an exaggerated frown. Perhaps he should take her off line again as punishment, see how she liked gathering dust like everything else. And if she was still insubordinate when he brought her back, he could set about designing a new operating system, one that actually did as he commanded.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the flat top's gleaming metal flank; it was dim and watery, but unmistakably him...and unmistakably downtrodden. The realization that he was but a shadow of his potential glory struck him like a fist, and anger simmered hotly in the chambers of his chest. Day after precious day, he vowed to take his revenge against Krabs and to enslave the undersea race, but he never did it...he never even made progress toward doing so. He sat at his desk like a henpecked cuck and built elaborate castles in the sky...then begged his wife for sex and cried himself to sleep when she shot him down. He fancied himself a Bold Man of Action, but in reality, he was a failed restaurant owner in a failed marriage to one of his failed creations, damned to forever covet Krab's success.

No more! He would break free from the self-imposed shackles holding him back. He would no longer simply plot, no longer would he tinker, he would act and bring the world to heel. He would smash into the Krusty Krab like Ishtar forcing the gates of hell, wrench the formula from Krab's cold, dead hand, then sweep into the world with an army of millions. Fire would cleanse the heavens and missiles would rain down on the heads of the unbelievers. He would take Capital City and rule with an iron fist. He would send his Gestapo to the homes of everyone who had ever wronged him, and all peoples of the world would recognize him as their king.

He was panting and salivating like a hungry dog.

The first step on this road to victory would be asserting himself to Karen. She would give him what was rightfully his, and if she didn't, he would take it by force.

Brimming with electric resolve, Plankton pushed away from the counter and stalked up the stairs, his tiny shadow racing across the wall like a demonic spectator to ruin. At the bedroom, Plankton kicked the door open and it slammed against the wall with an awful sound. "Karen, I demand you copulate with…"

His words trailed off in horror.

Karen lay on the bed, a giant, muscular lobster atop her, his pecs and glutes flexing as he thrusted into her. Gasps, grunts, and groans of pleasure knocked from Karen's throat, and the bed - their marriage bed - creaked under Larry's carnal assault.

Plankton deflated. "K-Karen," he trembled, "I-I though you promised not to cheat on me again."

Stopping, Larry cast an alarmed glance over his shoulder, his eyes widening when he saw Plankton. "Is that your husband?"

"Don't worry about him," Karen panted, "he's nobody."

Those two words pierced Plankton's heart like bullets dipped in acid and wrapped in barbed wire. His antena fell flaccid, his shoulders slumped, and tears welled in his single eye. His lips started to quiver, and he was powerless to stop himself from breaking down. Larry lifted a quizzical brow, then sneered in disgust. "Wow," he said, "he really _is_ nobody."

Giving into his sobs, Plankton turned and ran from the horrible scene, the sights, sounds, and smells of Karen's infidelity following him like a stir of malicious echoes. He threw himself down the stairs and out the front door, not knowing where he was going and not caring as long as it was away from her, away from the Chum Bucket, away from the God forsaken ruins of his misspent life. Cold, indifferent faces greeted him and rude arms pushed him aside. _Watch where you're going, pipsqueak,_ someone spat. Their cruelty made Plankton's tears fall faster, harder.

Somehow, he wound up on a bench hugging himself and blinking the blurry sheen from his eye. He was cold, a raw, palpitating mass of pain, heartbreak, and failure. He sniffed, and only then realized someone was sitting next to him. He looked up and barely registered who it was: Spongebob, Krabs' yellow acolyte. The buck toothed cretin stared blankly down at his feet, his eyes bloodshot and his mouth arranged in a sour little frown.

Life had, inevitably, gotten to the yellow doofus, as it gets to us all. His infectious smile and annoyingly upbeat optimism drained slowly away. Now, what sat before Plankton was a hollowed out, cynical husk.

"What's _your_ problem?" Spongebob asked.

Plankton opened his mouth to lie, but the truth came out instead. "M-My wife is cheating on me again. A-And I'm an utter failure." He turned away from Spongebob and squeezed his eye closed against a fresh crop of tears.

"Yeah," Spongebob said, "join the club. Krabs fire me today. All I've given him, all I've _done_ for him, and he throws me away like trash. Fuck him."

An image of Krabs, and everything he had that Plankton wanted, danced mockingly across the back of Plankton's eyelid. In that moment, he transferred all of his fury onto him, everything from his unfaithful wife to his wasteland of a restaurant...all of it became Krabs' fault, and Krabs' fault alone. "Yes," he said, tasting the word as though it were new and strange, "Krabs is the agent of my misery as well."

"That's all he's good for," Spongebob said, "causing misery."

An idea struck Plankton, and he jolted. Twisting to face the sponge, he said, "What say you and I team up to thwart him? Surely the two of us together can bring him to his knees."

Spongebob seemed to consider, then to reject, his proposal. "I'm not helping you get the formula," he said flatly.

For the most fleeting of seconds, Plankton had no idea what he was talking about. "I no longer wish to obtain the formula," he said honestly, and Spongebob looked at him, "I just want to see Krabs pay."

Spongebob searched his eye for traces of deceit, and when he found none, he furrowed his brow in thought. Plankton waited for his answer with bated breath, all of his hopes and dreams suddenly staked on his saying yes. Spongebob was not quite the boob he once was; he was hardened now, jaded, not the grinning dumbass of three years ago. He was a man Plankton could do business with...a man Plankton could use.

Finally, Spongebob decided.

Sticking out his hand, he flashed an evil, lopsided grin. "Let's do it."

And thus begins, Plankton thought as they shook, the downfall of Eugene Krabs.


End file.
